A Beast in Writing
by SparrowKing
Summary: "I can't help what happens, I may write the stories but I am just as powerless as every other Fable in this 'Promise Land'. So be a dear and don't come to me with your problems. I have enough already." [Rated - M for violence, strong language, suicidal attempts/thoughts & sexual situations] (Better story inside!)
1. Chapter 1 Edited!

Hey Before you read!

**[Edited!]**

Yes this is another "OC placed inside the main story" Fanfiction. But mine is going to be a little different, and more dark. My Oc wont be all up in Bigby's ass from the start to the end of the investigation. He'll pop up in some of the situations where main events might happen, but wont be changing or adding anything to the main plot.

And because of how my character is he will probably to be drunk to care about the investigation or already know the outcome and don't want to get involved.

Yes my character is going to be a raging alcoholic (Sometimes he'll be over emotional), along with being a cold hearted bastard.

Let's begin!

Huff & Puff and Ibuprofen

**KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!**

That noise sounded almost like the devil was scraping his sharp, inhuman finger nails again a good old fashioned Chalkboard. Well it sounded like that to the drunk that had thrown himself onto the couch not even an hour ago. The bedroom seemed to far of a walk for the intoxicated male.

The drunk buried his face deeper into the couch in hope that the pillows and the couch cushion would muffle the hellish noise. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes filled his nose. That smell came from both him and his couch. He had slept on the couch so many times in a drunken sleep that his couch was beginning to smell of it.

The knocking had stopped for a few seconds, and to this drunk it almost seemed like a lifetime. For sleep had already captured him. But the next three, hard rasps against the wooden door and the drunk groaned loudly. It was a hangover groan that was mixed with the want to slee, and the intention to kill if this wasn't important.

"Open up the door, It's me, Ichabod. I need to speak with you, it's urgent."

The drunk couldn't help but to slowly lift his head at his early caller. The pillows that covered his had had rolled down his back and landed on the floor. His last chance of hiding was now on the floor, and to far for him to grab.

From the blinding sun that made his eyes water, it had to be around seven or eight in the morning. But to the male it felt like ten at night and knowing his schedule like the back of his hand he wouldn't wake up until seven, eight-ish in the afternoon and stumble to the "Trip trap" and repeat.

But Ichabod? Making a personal house call? What was the occasion? The government of Fabletown knew _gift_ couldn't be used to fix their problem they had. And even if it could he wasn't going to. It would not only break their precious rules, but he would be breaking a couple of rules that had been with him since he started writing their lives.

He had done enough for them already. He created the Exodus because of their whining, and even after getting to this city they still whined acting like spoiled children because they had to work for once in their life.

In this land life was not a fairy tale. Nothing worked out in the end, good never won, only evil did in this land. There was no Princes or princesses, no castles or talking animals. They had to work and adapt to this new world.

But the drunk saw no way he could get out of this. Crane would just keep knocking until the drunk came home or till he answered the door. And if he didn't answer the phone his phone would keep going off until he finally gave in. So if he didn't answer now, he wouldn't get any sleep.

But Crane visiting him? It must have been important. On a normal day Crane had someone, mostly Snow, call and leave a message. And within the week the drunk would report in. Probably hungover or just waking from a drunken sleep.

Was it worth all the trouble?

**KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!**

"Bloody f-cking hell!" He groaned.

" - _With no words spoke, Ichabod Crane opened the now unlocked door and stepped in. His nose cringed at the discusting smell of booze and cigarettes. But nevertheless he entered and shut the door behind him. END - _"

Even though a second ago he sounded like a grumpy alley cat that had been thrown into a pool. His voice was now rich and soft like chocolate. After he spoke the loud _click_ of a lock as the door unlocked itself, and opened letting the old man into the smelly apartment.

There was a loud discussed noise as Crane entered and shut the door behind him. It wasn't just for the smell of booze and cigarettes, it was also for the mess that cluttered and formed small half taken care of trash piles in the drunks apartment.

There were a couple of trash bags that held cans, others held bottles, and a couple of boxes held the glass bottles of what use to have alcohol. Despite the smell and look of the place everything was pretty organized.

The upset, and hungover drunk had sat up, the blood rushing from his head. Leaning foward he rested on his elbows that rested on his knees. Breathing in rubbed his face before he exhaled. Even though he was drunk it still took him forever to sleep, so when he did finally manage to sleep, BAM! Some one had to knock at his door.

"Mr. Crane," He said sleep hanging off his words" Please take a seat." He motioned to the chair that sat across from him. A glass coffee table would sit between them and on this table were the fresh clutter of empty Huff & Puffs, and cheap bear cans that hadn't been placed in trash bags.

His place was actually pretty clean compared to before. When he took on roommates, they actually cleaned up the pig pen he called a place. That was their rent, cleaning up the small apartment. The drunk didn't expect much of the cleaning. They did what they could and the drunk did his best to do his part.

Because of their size and lack of money they couldn't go out and get jobs. With fear of going to the Farm, the male took them in and gave them a place to hide. He didn't get many visitors and his last roommate ran out on him. So they could hide and be somewhat free here.

Crane moved through the apartment, doing his best not to trip of the trash bags. It didn't take much to know he was discussed at the place. And with all honesty the drunk didn't care. When Crane got to the chair he picked up a glass bottle with what looked like Scotch. A half empty bottle the drunk gladly took from Crane.

"So what's with the house call?" He asked setting the bottle as his feet as he started rummaging through the empty Huff & Puffs looking for one that held at least one or two cigarettes. "I know its not to clean my place. I'm wiped from the records so no one would come to visit me. F-ck, I doubt anyone knows I'm still alive. Or even exist."

Satisfied with finding one, he pulled the cheap cigarette from a crumbled pack and put it to his lips. After the long silence of lighting the cancer stick and taking a long and much needed drag he looked up at the silent Crane. It took him a few seconds before realizing that he wasn't glamoured. On a normal day, or outside his apartment, he was semi glamoured.

There wasn't need for him to buy glamour. He could change his to and from Mundie anytime he wanted. He bought to "help" the Fable world. Everyone knows that their secret world needed help. Plus he needed some just in case he got to drunk and forgot where he was.

If he wasn't glamoured the first thing people would notice would he his freakish face. He had a drawn back mouth that stretched to his ears, and instead of curving up, it curved down to his jaw. Sharp Caine like teeth showed up as clear as day and as it lead to where a normal mouth would be, he had almost normal, but still sharp teeth, and normal lips.

He almost looked like that psycho clown from the famous movies, video games, and comics, Batman. What lay under his mouth were actually another set of teeth, teeth no one has or will ever see. It was a secret he kept to himself, after all he was cleaned from the records and wanted to keep it that way.

His spine, and at the angle he was leaning, looked to bend at an awkward angle. Making it seem like his spine would break through his skin with the slightest ease if he were to lean forward just a little bit more.

The next thing had to be the four pitch black wings that were placed on his back. Two of them were at his shoulder blades, where Mundies assumed wings should be, and the other two were on his lower back, just above his hips, the real place where wings should be.

Taking another drag from his cigarette he forced himself to look like a Mundie. The green light and the cracking sound of bone filled the livingroom of the apartment. Crane flinched at the sound. After the sound of snapping bones, the cracking of what sounded like muscles and veins would make anyone, no matter how big and bad, cower in fear.

There was a soft cry of pain from the drunk. Only because his changing form didn't sit well with his throbbing headache. It was also pain for to forcefully hide four large wings under a thing layer of Mundie like skin.

Clearing his throat Crane spoke, doing his very best not to be effected by whole thing that had played out in front of him. For Crane had never really seen the drunks real form only Blue beard and Cole had seen what the drunk looked like.

"Mr. Meyer, I'm not here on Fabletown Business, I'm here on a personal matter." Crane was about to explain while the drunk, Mr. Meyer, went through the clutter on the table for a small white bottle that would hold his relief.

"Dross." Dross corrected once he held the bottle in his hand.

"Excuse me?" Crane asked.

"Call me Dross, I feel old when people call me "Mr. Meyer"." Dross said dumping some of the pills into his hand.

"Alright, Dross." Crane corrected himself as he watched Dross chase down the pills with scotch. "I'm here on a personal matter, a matter only you can help me with."

Taking a drag from his cigarette he leaned back and rose a dark eye brow at the old man.

"Personal? And I'm guessing your current power wont over throw this Fable?" Dross' voice was sharp and harsh. Of course it involved another Fable, when his powers wont work come to the male who wrote the stories.

Despite how pissed he was. He was actually curious what the request might be.

"Drosselmeyer... I need your help." Crane's voice trailed.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey Before you read!

Yay Chapter 2!

Let's begin!

Rejection.

Drosselmeyer scratched the back of his head not looking at the old, small, man that sat in his chair. Why did people always come to him when it came to "Swaying" a fable into doing another's will? Granted he did have that power, he was practically a god to them, but that was in the other world. The original world they came from, the world he created.

Doing his power here required a lot more then one would think. Doing a simple thing like making the door unlock and making Crane walk in discussed by the place, took more then half of his energy. And he didn't have much in the morning. The Mundie world had it's own twists and turns, something Dross couldn't control. They had their own gods and their own destines that weren't planned out by him.

It's the reason he stayed hidden, erased from the records of Fabletown. If the Fables knew about his power, they would constantly be knocking at his door begging for their problems to be erased. Hell even in the world they came from no one knew he was! Just another creature tucked away into the nooks and crannies of the old world.

Dross' eyes moved to the only clean, untouched, part in his place. In the very back corner of the livingroom was a dark old desk that had and old fashion quill that sat in ink. The quill and ink bottle was gold. The feather had came from the golden goose, a thank you gift from the giant before Jack killed him.

The ink was still black, and seeming invisible to many people. One could lift the bottle turn it upside down and shake it., no ink would fall. but if Dross was to dip the quill into the bottle and start to write on the parchment, that sat in abundance on the desk, ink would appear.

His staring brought the attention of Crane, who followed his eyes until he saw the desk.

"Writing another fable?" He asked in hesitant.

The two met eyes, and from Dross' semi blank, semi sharp, stare no more questions were asked about the desk. Dross sighed taking another drag from his cigarette before changing the subject away from his private work.

"In what way do you need me help?"

"It's about Snow white."

Crane answered a little to fast for the black haired males liking. But it was about Snow White? Leaning back against the couch Drosselmeyer closed his eyes and breathed in. He made sure his breathing in sounded like an inward sigh. Snow White, even in this world, was a strong woman, she couldn't be evil even if she tried. So what did she do?

"And what about Snow White? What has she done?" He asked peeking out from his closed eyes.

It was a good thing his headache was slowly receding, if not he wouldn't hear any of it. Snow White was one of his favorite Fables. She hadn't been corrupted by the Mundie world like so many of the others had. She hadn't skipped out on dept, she had a job working with other Fables, and she was an all around nice woman, despite the hardships of her currently job.

"Stolen my heart."

Drosselmeyer almost spit up the Scotch that he was drinking. He wasn't expecting something like that. Love wasn't a reason to come to Drosselmeyer. He wasn't the love expert, yes he wrote about it, but it doesn't mean he was the master at it. He two had failed at the love game, it was the reason why he didn't plan up or write a lover.

But if Dross was to grant wishes to the Fables of Fabletown he would have three rules. Rule one, No love, he wasn't going to force people to fall in love with one another, nor was he to brew up a love potion. For trickery like that they should go see a witch or just try to get passed the friend-zone.

Rules two, no wealth. He wouldn't grant people the joy of being rich. Most of the Fables came from wealthy backgrounds so why want more riches if they had it? Granted coming to the new world they couldn't bring their castles, and servants. If they loved their riches so much they should have stayed in the other world. Plus he couldn't magically have Mundie money appear. The way Mundies make their currency was rather difficult to copy.

And the third and final rule would be, no bringing people back from the dead. Yea in the old world it would be no problem. If they got to him in time he could write away the wound or sickness that claimed them. But in the Mundie world, it was another thing that took a lot out of him. He would most likely be in a coma for a couple of weeks if he were to bring a Fable back in this world. Plus most the Fables are buried, burned, or down the Witching Well before he could get to them.

The three rules sounded similar to a genies three rules. They were pretty much the same three rules. Except Drosselmeyer could do it a lot better, more accurate, and without trick compared to a genie. Except no one but a couple of people in the "Government" know about him so he didn't have to explain the rules when someone "Rubbed" his "Lamp".

" - I can't seem to get over her. - " Dross hadn't realize that Crane was speaking. " - She's always on my mind. I can't help myself but to stare at her - "

Dross blinked a couple of times in surprise. Crane, Ichabod Crane, was having trouble with asking a woman out so he came to him for advice and help? What advice was he supposed to give except get through the friend-zone and be a nice as he could be?

Then again Snow wouldn't go for a short old man. Or would she? Some Mundies, and Fables didn't care for looks and ages. Hell some of the Fables he wrote had a fourteen year old marrying a thirty year old out of love. Love was something one couldn't stop.

" - If you could help me get her to love me."

Drosselmeyer managed to snap out of his sleep/thought filled mind to hear the end of the plea. And it wasn't something Dross wanted to hear. Crane was asking him to force Snow to love him? That went against rule one... Or was it two? Hell it could be three, but one of them was "Not forcing love".

"No." Dross' voice was sharp and dark. "Do it yourself."

Crane didn't like what Drosselmeyer had said, or in the rude way he had said it.

"Mr. Meyer. Must I remind you who pays for this place?"

That was true, Drosselmeyer didn't have to pay for this place because he brought them to this world. It was a secret thank you from the King and all of Fabletown, even if they didn't know it.

"And what are you going to do? Stop paying the bills?" Dross rose an eyebrow at this. "Just remember who brought you to this world."

"And it's a horrible world. We were much better off back in our world." Crane wasn't happy, his irritated voice seemed to rise a bit

"Then why was everyone bitching? If you were so well off in your own faery tales, why leave? It was everyone's whish to leave, King Cole asked for my help and I helped. So shut your trap and bring your problems to King Cole!"

Crane's face twisted in anger, obviously not happy with Drosselmeyer's final answer. Dross kept his face calm, even though his voice sounded just as irritated as Cranes. Crane stood up from the chair, as if accepting the answer he was given.

"Well then," He started. "I'll be on my way." He started walking towards the door. "And since King Cole is currently unavailable, I'm in charge. So for now on your records will no longer be sealed. Any Fable will be able to see your file."

"If you're so desperate try the Puddin n' Pie!" Drosselmeyer yelled before the door shut behind Crane.

The male sighed setting the bottle on the floor and extinguishing this Huff & Puff. Slowly he laid back on the couch, his dark eyes on the desk. The quill had started writing something. Unconsciously Drosselmeyer wrote Fables. He had two ways of doing things. He could speak and his will, will be carried out, as long as it involved another Fable. And then there was the most common, the ones he sold to the Brother's Grimm. The Tales he wrote inside his mind.

Without a single thought of it, he would write out stories, characters, and places. There was only a few that he wrote himself personally. And they were based of actual real life people or a rhyme that was lost to the Mundie world.

Even though Drosselmeyer couldn't stop the writing, he knew the events that happened in his house had spurred something into happening. What he didn't know yet, he was still "writing". But his stories were never happy, nor did they end with a happy ending.

Something big was coming.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey Before you read!

. . . . . . . .

Let's begin!

Walk a Crooked Mile.

- PART ONE -

A Year Later...

"Drossie! Drossie! Drossie!"

The repeat calling of Drosselmeyer's name caused the sleeping drunk to stir. Well it wasn't his name, it was obviously a nickname. A nickname his roommates made for him and a nickname he was only going to let them use for him. It seemed like they had some kind of problem saying a full name. Once again Drosselmeyer's fault, he wrote them like that.

"Drossie! Drossie! Get up!"

This time he groaned, but his eyes remained shut. This had to be the third of fifth time this had happened to him in one day. They were spaced out though, every what seemed like hour he was getting woken up, but would he stay up? Nope, the drunk would roll over, still in Mundie form, and go back asleep.

"Drossie's not getting up!" One of his roommates stated, pointing out the obvious.

"What about summons? It's been two months!" Another sighed, slightly irritated at Dross for repeating his normal routine of getting home drunk, sleeping till late hours and leaving to get drunk. There was no spaces in between. Things like eating and showering seemed to be put off until his roommates actually crammed food down his throat or dumped freezing cold water on him while he slept.

"He's not going to get up for that!" The only female answered.

Dross was awake enough to listen to half their conversation. Plus it was kind of hard to ignore a conversation that was taking place on you.

"Well, Drossie, since you're not going to wake up im going to draw and write with your parchment and your quill. If the special quill breaks its not my fault."

Dross didn't know which one said it but he was wake enough now not to let that happen. Quickly he sat up, the four mice sitting on his chest fell to his lap all four yelping in surprise at the sudden jerk up.

"The 'ell you are ya bastards!" The drunk yelled.

Motion sickness fell over him and quickly he fell back groaning. Now he couldn't go back to sleep, not with his life on the line. The quill was more then just a special quill, his life was connected to that quill. If that quill were to break, Dross would be no more. The quill already had a crack in it. It was a small crack near the top, the crack was caused by an apprentice he collected in hopes of passing the torch down. The young male had shown great skills in the work Dross had down.

But the boy wanted to be a knight and was swayed into killing Dross by a knight. The knight had promise squireship to him if the "Evil" monster was killed. Granted Dross wrote it so he knew what was going to happen. But he loved the boy like a son, and didn't want to hurt him.

But what was done was done. Drosselmeyer sat back up the few mice on his lap staring, probably waiting for him to go back to sleep so they could keep annoying him until he finally woke. The only witch that didn't cost a small pile of gold was Aunty Greenleaf. She was the hero when it came to glamour and the only one that was brave enough to fix the quil, no matter how much pain it caused Drosselmeyer.

"Go I'm up." He said with a small Jerk of his head.

The clothes wearing mice scrambled off. Leaving Dross with his own thoughts, and his own story still rattling in his hungover mind. The author sighed not wanting to remember his own story. He could still hear the boy's voice, the always happy voice.

Dross forced back the tears and moved his legs off the couch to the floor. He didn't want to hear it. Standing up his legs, well everything, moved and popped uncomfortably. The last thing he wanted to do was remember. Unsteadily he walked to the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

Many people, Fables or Mundies would assumed having a gift like Drosselmeyer's would be fun. That they would influence certain things or bend others to their will. When in reality it wasn't that fun. It was more like a curse then a gift. Though many wouldn't understand because they've never experienced it, and if they ever did experience it, they would go mad.

The hot water burned Drosselmeyer's skin at first, but with the adding of cold water, the boiling hot water simmered down to a luke warm. Which wasn't the temperature the waking drunk wanted. So he turned the hot water handle a bit more adding more hot water.

The first part of this curse was that it was draining. No matter how small the command, or how small the fable is. It drained _everything_, both physically, emotionally, and mentally. The second part of his curse would be the control. He had no control how the stories ended or what went on during them. Granted he was the author and it all came from his mind. He was helpless. He was more of a vessel to his writing, a way for lives, and stories to get out.

The final and worse part of this curse was the voices. Once a story, the characters and the scene was set up. That was it, their voice would forever ring off your mind. All hours of the day, in sleep or awake. You would hear their voices. Their screams or pain or pleasure, their cries of sorrow, their laughs of evil. There was no escape.

And that's why Drosselmeyer drank so much. It was the only thing that would numb the voices long enough so he could get the little sleep he got. The boy, his apprentice, showed no signs of hearing the voices, which gave Dross hope that maybe this boy could take over when Drosselmeyer finally ended his own life.

But, here he stood in his shower. Water cascading down his figure. Still a live and just barely kicking. The sad thing was, no matter how he wanted to end his life, he couldn't. As long as he stayed a live the Fables had a chance to get back to the world he created for them. And soon they would grow tired of the life of a working fable and go back to the rich and simple life of their _fairy tales._

Everything started with a blank sheet of parchment. Where it came from Dross didn't know. But he knew, with the quill in his hand he could create anything. So he started drawing out land, and the details of each land. The curses, the rivers, the castles and towns. And to his surprise the white void he floated in turned into anything he wrote.

Mountains sprung up, rivers flowed, oceans roared. He felt like a child seeing everything just "pop" up after he wrote it. And for the longest time he wandered the places he created. He walked the halls of every castle, fixing and adding details. He ran through the fields or farms and slept in the forests.

But something was missing. People.

And for the longest time he couldn't create the Fables that wander New York. Time after time he would fail and it almost drove him to madness. But one day he sat in the throne room of an empty castle he noticed something. The quill started writing on its own. To Drosselmeyer that was new to him, and he ripped through the parchment reading whatever the quill had wrote down.

That's when the voices started. From the days that followed the quill never rested and the voices grew stronger. So strong that Dross took shelter in a cave deep underground. He made it his home, candles were burning brightly everyday. Furniture sat in different places, but the best part about it, it muffled the voices.

Soon the lands he wrote were filled with people carrying out their own stories. The stories he had wrote to them. But because of his "Inhuman" appearance many of the people called him a monster or demon and chased him away.

So he flipped to the dark side of his parchment and started writing. Changing everything, forests soon became cursed forests. People grew evil and conflict started to grow out in the land.

Drosselmeyer honestly didn't mind now that he wrote evil. Most of his friends now were known as the "Villans" in his stories. But after he wrote it, and this quill moving on it own, he felt bad. Because that's when the voices began to scream and cry.

The only thing that stumped Dross was if he had a childhood. Or if he was even a child? He couldn't remember anything before he started writing for the first time.

Turning off the water Drosselmeyer sighed heavily. Thinking about the past always annoyed him. He had questions that were never going to be answered and there was no one to answer them. Grabbing the white towel he wrapped it around himself before pulling the shower curtain open.

"Oh my..." A female voice laughed.

Drosselmeyer looked at the woman who sat on his sink a twist grin on her face.

"Mary..."


	4. Chapter 4

Hey Before you read!

The information I found on the Crooked Man came from Wiki.

Let's begin!

Walk a Crooked Mile.

- PART TWO -

It was the last thing Dross wanted to see after a much needed shower. Mary, Bloody Mary, one of the tales Dross wrote himself, in his bathroom. Bloody Mary was actually a real living being that lived in this Mundie world at one point in time. Her name was Queen Mary the first of England; she got her nickname "Bloody Mary" by burning hundreds of religious dissenters at the stake. When she died her spirit was released into mirrors and with no way of escaping she travelled mirror to mirror when someone called her name three times.

Of course now-a-days, the Mundies completely ruined her once scary tale. They made a game out of her tale, repeating her name three times would either show the face or their future spouse or a skull meaning they would die before their wedding day. She's not even who she was anymore, the Mundies turned her into a story portraying her as a witch-like woman wailing for her lost child and killing whoever called her name.

It was pretty sad to think how Mundies have devolved over the years. Some probably don't even know the tales behind the Mirror. The Mirror was a way to trap a spirit and keep it from ever reaching a place of peace. So after a couple hundred or some years, of being trapped in a mirror a spirit becomes angry and they take their wrath out on who ever summons them. That's why Bloody Mary is a killer, because Dross wrote a peace of her spirit into his tale.

Sighing deeply the author looked at the slender woman who sat on his bathroom counter. The mirror sat behind her. Mary didn't need to be summoned to _jump_ from mirror to mirror. She could move freely without a problem. And since she was "part" fable she could leave and return to a mirror whenever she wanted to. So out of all the mirrors in the Mundie world did she appear to his mirror? What could she possibly want from him?

"What do you want?" He finally asked, more like snapped, at Mary.

"What do I want?" She asked giving a small smile and an amused laugh. "You can't give me what I want"

Dross wasn't amused, he was standing in his bathroom wrapped in a towel and still drenched in water. That was a great way to get sick. Drinking while sick wasn't the best thing, so how was he supposed to silence the voices?

"Okay, glad to know I can't give you what you want, so tell me why you're here?" He asked hoping he could just give her what she wanted so she could leave him alone. At this point of being a couple hours sober, he would do anything.

"I've come to…" She paused, her amber eyes looking him up and down as if thinking of a word to call him. "Collect."

"Collect?" He asked pinching the bridge of his nose while the other hand kept the towel from falling off.

Drosselmeyer was starting to get sick of this word game they were playing. If only she would just say what she wants then he could shoo her away and finally get dress before he catches a cold.

"Yes, collect" She echoed. "The Crooked Man wants a word with you." There was a small pause as her signature smile formed on her pale face. "Well, a couple words with you."

Drosselmeyer shook his head in disbelief, all this for the Crooked Man? He should have known. Where you'd see Mary the Crooked Man was sure to come next, unless you summoned her in a mirror. The voice had started to pick up in his mind. They were soft and muffled, so the male assumed he would have time to take a shower and then get some kind of liquor inside him before they started screaming. But it seemed like he was going to be in one hell of a mood.

"Well, if the _great_ Crooked Man wants to talk with me, how can I refuse?" Dross sarcastically asked. "Oh, yea like this. Get out of my place before I make you, and tell the Crooked Man if he wants to talk to me he needs to get his bony a-s up and come find me."

It didn't take much to see the anger build up in her. He could almost feel it, but it was hidden by her smile. Her dark twisted smile. The voice quickly picked up, getting louder and louder with each passing minute. He needed her gone so he could silence their voices.

"He can get them to stop."

Drosselmeyer looked up, removing the hand that went to his forehead. The voices had turned into a roaring headache. He knew she was lying; no one could silence the voices. He would have known if someone were able to silence the voices, he would have already sought out their help.

"Haven't you heard? It's not nice to tease the creator. The Mundies are super serious when it comes to that, and seeing you were a Mundie at one point I assume you knew."

A normal person's eyes would have narrowed at this remark. But hers widened, at this moment Dross couldn't tell if she was completely amused by his boldness and attitude when it comes to her and her reputation, or if she was too angry that all she could do was stare knowing she couldn't do anything.

"You doubt he can?" She asked. "You out of anyone knows what he can do."

Strangely enough The Crooked Man wasn't something that Drosselmeyer wrote. Nowhere in his books, or the parchment was the Crooked Man. His apprentice didn't write out the story without Dross' knowledge. The Crooked Man was the only fable Dross didn't write. He assumed one of the Mundies had to, even though it was hard to believe.

Mundies were strange creatures, their minds were creative and all it took was a small dash of his power to give life to their stories. No matter how hard it was to believe a Mundie could of have that power long ago and not know of it.

The rhyme was first recorded by a man named "James Orchard Halliwell" back in the 1840s. Back when the Mundie mind was still changing. The rhyme quickly became popular in the early twentieth century. There were three stories behind the rhyme. Some said that the town of _Lavenham_ is believed to inspired the rhyme. While others said it originates from the history of King Charles the first of England.

The last few said the crooked man was reputed to be the Scottish General _Sir Alexander Lesile_. He had signed a covenant securing religious and political freedom for Scotland. The 'crooked stile' in the poem was supposed to be the border between England and Scotland. 'They all lived together in a little crooked house' was supposed to refer to the fact that the English and the Scots had at last come to an agreement, despite continuing great animosity between the two people, who nonetheless had to live with each other due to their common borders.

Though Dross wasn't quite sure what went on in the Mundie world. He could only gather bits of information through the books that Mundies wrote on their history. It was strange that not many went into the building of great knowledge. The books that line the walls would give them great insights on how they once were and how they could still be.

" _There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile._

_He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile._

_He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,_

_And they all lived together in a little crooked house._ "

Drosselmeyer never liked that rhyme to begin with. But maybe, just maybe the Crooked Man had some kind of power to release him from the voices? It was a long shot and would cost greatly, but anything to silence the voices.

In this world, hearing voices is a bad thing. A very bad thing, many of the Mundie world locked such behaviour up in a patted building. Plus the pills the Mundies gave out numbed the body and hurt the mind. There was no way he was going to take their soul destroying pills.

"Alright," Dross said meeting her amber eyes. "Give me a few minutes to dry off and get dressed and I'll go see the Crooked Man."

Mary didn't seem too happy at Dross' submission. She wanted him to reject and Drosselmeyer knew that. He knew she would push a bit more then leave. And within the next couple of hours, or maybe days, The Crooked Man's leg breaking thugs, would come and pay him a visit.

"And Mary, don't torture my roommates. If you do, you won't like the outcome."


End file.
